


Out of the Shadows

by thesilenceinbetween



Category: Passions
Genre: Angst, F/M, Melodrama, Out of Character, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-07
Updated: 2005-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:56:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilenceinbetween/pseuds/thesilenceinbetween
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are an anachronism, tragedy personified. Fancy writes a letter to Noah. Set sometime within the next year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> **Author’s Note** – As much as I’ve grown to adore Noah and Fancy together, I am absolutely, positively, quite sure that they are never going to be happy together. Ever. And I was thinking about this, and then BOOM. A fic was born. And this fic was written in October of 2005, but takes place sometime within the next year of that date, if that makes any sense whatsoever. It also probably romanticizes Fancy a bit too much. Oops. 
> 
> **Disclaimer** – I own nothing. James E. Reilly and NBC own Passions. Damn it.

I suppose I should start this letter out with a salutation of some sort; at least, that’s what my fancy prep school teachers drilled into my head all those years ago (back when I wore rose-colored shades on a daily basis and thought that maybe, maybe if I were smart enough, my parents might find it in themselves to love me as much as they hated each other). But salutations are for business letters and pen pals. Salutations are for lovers who walk hand-in-hand down the street, breathing in the crisp autumn air and listening to the fall leaves crunch beneath their feet while marveling at how beautiful the world is. 

We used to be like that. We used to be so happy and in love, so carefree. But then things changed. We became the type of lovers that find their reprieve in each other’s arms while hiding in the shadows, constantly watching to make sure that they won’t be discovered. No, salutations aren’t for people like us. And even if they were, what would they say? “Dear Noah”? “My Darling Noah”? “My Love”? No, salutations were never meant for people like us.

But I’m rambling. I tend to do that sometimes. You might have noticed that; then again, you might have not. Maybe we were too busy hiding in the shadows to ever really get to know one another. Maybe spending so much time in the shadows taught us everything that we needed to know about one another. I’m not so sure. I’m not so sure about anything anymore.

I do know one thing, though. I know that I’m in love with you, Noah. It took me a long time to figure that out, to be really and truly sure, but now I’m absolutely certain of that fact. I am head-over-heels, can’t-live-without-you, you’re-the-air-I-breathe in love with you. Being apart from you hurts more than I could ever believe possible. My entire body aches. I would give anything to just have you touch me once more.

I imagine that you’re scoffing at this. You’re wondering why, if I need you so desperately, am I marrying Jeremy Hotchkiss tomorrow? I’m marrying him because I love you, Noah. You’re so eager to be a man like your father that, somewhere along the line, you convinced yourself that you’re invincible. I had hoped that my grandfather’s attempt on your life earlier this year, while terrifying for both of us, might have made something in your head click, made you realize that you’re human, just like the rest of us. But instead, surviving the ordeal only reinforced your belief in your own invincibility. You became more and more convinced that you could take anything that my grandfather threw at you. You couldn’t see that you were really a tiny mouse trying to win a battle with a huge, man-eating tractor.

You’re protesting now. You’re saying (or thinking – you never seemed the type for talking to yourself) that our love is strong, and as long as we have our love and each other, we’ll be all right.

I’ve always been a little cynical about love, it’s true – it’s impossible to not be a little cynical about love after growing up as a Crane. I believed in lust and sex, but never love. I’d never had any reason to – I was virtually ignored by my parents, and every guy I ever thought I’d loved turned out to just be after my family’s fortune. The only person I’d ever been able to depend on was my grandfather.

And then I met you. And you were infuriating and aggravating and a menace, but you were also sweet and sexy and God I wanted you. And, somewhere along the way, you taught me what love meant. You made me believe that love could cure all ails, fix the world. I was so caught up in you that I was blinded from the truth that was jumping up and down right in front of me in a hideous, neon orange raincoat. 

Love can overcome age. Love can overcome religion, and race. Love can even overcome gender. But love cannot overcome class. You’d think that I’d have learned my lesson from Sheridan and Luis, Ethan and Theresa, or even Fox and Whitney. You’d think that, in this modern day and age, our society would be able to look beyond socioeconomic status and just accept the love that two people share.

But, apparently, it cannot. And so we are an anachronism. We are tragedy personified. We are a modern day Romeo and Juliet, only you’re no Romeo and I’m no Juliet, and our fate will be no where near as pleasant as theirs. No one will read our story and lament over our misfortune or the tragedy of our circumstances. Our story will be swallowed up by time, fading from memory to urban legend. And there’s nothing that we can do about it.

No, Noah, we were doomed from the start. But, unlike Romeo and Juliet, we have a choice. We can stay together. We can walk down the street, hand-in-hand, marveling at the warmth of the sun on our faces. We can be happy. But, in the same breath, we can wait for my grandfather to decide that he’d like to take a bath in your blood, leaving me to hold your broken, mangled body and watch as my dewy tears mingle with your cool, crimson blood.

Or, I can let you go. I can marry Jeremy Hotchkiss and finally fulfill the Crane-Hotchkiss merger that my grandfather has dreamed of ever since Ethan and Gwen started dating as children. And you can move on with your life. You can find a woman that you can love without having to hide in the shadows. This woman will have warm, welcoming parents and a charming grandfather who swears to break every bone in your body if you so much as harm his precious granddaughter. And you’ll be smitten with her. Harming this delicate flower will be unimaginable. You’ll marry her and buy a house that you’ll fill with smiling, laughing, giggling children. And you’ll forget all about me. Our tragedy will fade from your memory, too.

I’m weighing these two choices, and, lover, choice B is sounding awfully tempting. That’s why I’m going to marry Jeremy tomorrow. He may be arrogant, and a bona fide asshole, but that doesn’t matter. You think that love can conquer all, Noah? Then let it. Let my love prevent your death. Let my love protect you from my grandfather. And go. Find that woman that I spoke of earlier. Marry her, and get the house and the kids. Be happy. Feel the sun on your face. I’m setting you free.

My eternal love,

Fancy


End file.
